Sticky Time
A chat with Alex Moreno
The first time I remember actively hating a poet was the first time I went to a reading in New York. It was at KGB Bar. The reader was breathy and pretentious, taking heavy pauses on flimsy words. There was a lady singing opera in the room upstairs. It crept down the steps and snuck under the crack in the door. It was faint and beautiful and suited the room almost to the point of cliché. The reader was three syllables too far into the word ‘cacophony’ when the door swung open. A falsetto cut through the room like a sword with an edge only for the neck of some twerp poet. The reader sighed, swallowed hard, then looked up from the podium and said, “Ugh, it’s just really hard to read with all this going on.”
I choked on my beer. I figured if a poem could not be read to the tune of some opera, it should not be read at all. I left that reading feeling very hopeless, and, as you can see, I still think about that twerp a lot. When I hate something, I really, really, really hate it. It’s not a good feeling, and one, despite the name of this Substack, that I work hard to avoid. I hate hating stuff. It makes me feel gross. My therapist has even been teaching me about ‘Cognitive Restructuring’ lately. I really frickin’ hate that.
So, when Alex Moreno sent me a copy of her new book of poetry, Sticky Time, a dread built in me for fear that I might not like it, that I might really, really, really hate it, that I’d have to sit down with her, drink too many beers, and pretend otherwise. I left it in my Gmail for a week before opening it, then asked Arty to print it at work. It lived in my bag for another week, bending at the corners, gathering gum wrappers and receipts and weed crumbs.
But one day, I was at the library, grinding my teeth, hating my own writing, wanting to fill my mind with anything other than my own thoughts, so I closed my laptop and flipped open Sticky Time. I scooted my butt to the edge of my seat, hunched over the pages, and spun my pen between my fingers. Hours later, I took a big gulp of water, ran my hands through my hair, and said, “Whoa.” Without another thought, I gathered my things and walked home muttering, “Whoa. Whoa. Whoa.”
Sticky Time is GOOD. Really goddamn good. It’s full of heart and grime and ick. It’s kooky and juicy and heaven-reaching, picking at the gods and scabs alike. It made me hear something, and what I heard was opera and angst and love. It made me feel something, and the feeling felt like <3.
Better yet, my conversation with Alex was effortless. We met at a bar and talked. I hated none of it. It was pleasant. I enjoyed it. To quote Alex in “She borrowed my shorts and found a fingernail in the pocket”—It was a Monday. I was born.
Anyhow, here’s me drinking a few nervous beers, asking Alex Moreno about Sticky Time, fear, fingernails, and everything else.
What’s your favorite kind of bottle cap to chew?
Poland Springs. I haven’t indulged in many years, but that soft plastic had me hooked. Probably for all of elementary school and middle school I chewed a cap a day. And for an extra treat I’d put gum in at the same time. Made it all sharp and minty. But I stopped with the bottle caps when I was a teenager. After a nasty case of strep throat, I never bit again. I hate thinking about all the plastic I swallowed as a kid though. I have this awful vision of bottle cap juice and particles all stacked through my insides.
Who’s your least favorite poet?
Not sure, but I don’t like being bored. I’m usually drawn to more experimental poetry. I like being surprised.
Are you a scab picker?
As of last month, no! It could change—maybe it depends on the scab or my state of mind—but a few weeks ago I fell and skinned my knee, got a scab, and repeatedly said “Do not pick it,” out loud for five days until the right moment. I think there’s always a right moment. Same with blisters. The blister wants you to pop it sooooo bad. There’s something about this light gore of the self. The inherent body horror in being a person. You want to pop it because you want to see what it’s going to do. I have fun with scabs, blisters, fingernails, etc., in Sticky Time. It’s this thing of being able to hold your body outside of yourself. Your disembodied nail is you and not and then maybe you put it on the ground and you’re so many here’s and maybe that’s nice.
Do you believe in God?
Yes. I came to that in my early twenties. To me….god is everywhere (everywhen…) and contains all and also made all. I think it’s nice to believe—I feel like it makes my life better. There’s a decent amount of god stuff in Sticky Time. It’s not really a religious thing, more of a personal relationship.
How long do you give a book before you put it down?
Depends on the book. It does have to grab me though. Usually it’s boredom that makes me put a book down. Could be a line, a page, a chapter. I’m not someone who believes you have to finish every book you start.
What’s something that everybody hates that you love?
Mayonnaise...spiders.
How many fingernails are in your pockets right now?
At least two.
All caps or no caps?
I’m loving these questions (thanks)... I think there’s a time and place for all caps. I use it in the book when the poem is yelling. Caps are good for capturing manic energy. The two poems in Sticky Time with all caps are “LET’S TIME BINGE, BABY, I’M BETWEEN FOREVERS” and “SUN CUM ANX.” They’re meant to be screamed. An all-caps-self is different to a no-caps-self.
What are you scared of?
A home invasion is my worst nightmare. I fear evil. The apocalypse.
Would you describe yourself as chaotic, or the world as chaotic?
Both sometimes. I don’t think I’m really that chaotic, but my writing voice is. And the world…I think the world is pretty chaotic. Because I like to live calmly, a lot of the chaos I witness has to be transformed into my writing. When that doesn’t happen, I get chaotic, and I don’t like that.
Do you care if I go get another beer?
No. Go for it.
Describe your parents in three words.
Loving. Human... uhh. Divorced. Fun. That was four.
New York or Los Angeles?
LA to live in, New York to have been born in.
What’s the worst thing you can call a poet?
Boring.
You have a poem called “First fragment, sorry.” Are you apologizing for including a fragment or that there are not more?
I guess it’s kind of a joke. That’s certainly not the first fragment of the collection, but it’s definitely the most overt. Maybe sometimes fragments are overdone, and maybe that’s what I’m apologizing for: teetering on hack-y-ness.
What’s the worst compliment you’ve ever received?
Something generic.
What are some things you would advise against at poetry readings?
I guess we’re coming back to this and maybe it’s mean but I’d advise against being boring?? I don’t know. How about: I’d advise against revealing secrets that will do you or others harm.
If only one person could read Sticky Time, who would you want it to be?
Clarice Lispector, my #1 inspiration, my favorite writer, my if-she-could-read-my-poems-and-tell-me-anything-about-them-I’d-transcend person. She’s been such a magical presence in my writing life, and her influence is all over Sticky Time. It’s sad that she’s dead and can’t read my book, but I’m just grateful that I get to read her for all my life.
What are you looking forward to?
Now.
You can purchase Sticky Time here: https://sunflowerstationpress.com/product/sticky-time
Also! For the L.A. babies, the book launch is November 18th in Echo Park at Stories. Be there, twerps.
Alex Moreno is a writer and visual artist born in New York City and based in Los Angeles. Her work has been published for 10+ years. She earned a BA from Bowdoin College, eats 1-2 apples a day, and really likes it.
Visit alexalexherehere.com for more.
Hello, world. What an honor!
HEY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Daisy!!!!!!!! Thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you AND!! thank you to everyone who reads :8
more interviews in bars!!!